


Panorama

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Androgyny, Female Castiel, Feminization, M/M, Model Castiel, Panty Kink, Photographer Dean, Pining Dean, Sometimes Female at least ; ), Supernatural Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean saw Cas the first time in a photograph that, unfortunately, wasn't taken by him. She’s got these piercing blue eyes, like they could glow in the dark if suddenly someone flipped a switch, and they stare right into the lens—right at Dean. Her face: it was odd, and not in a bad way. She didn’t have that traditional feminine pointed chin, she was angles and she was beautiful.</p><p>When Dean's fantasy comes true and he has the opportunity to photograph the illustrious Cassandra Milton, he learns that Cas has a secret that's a gamechanger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panorama

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samskillerpenis](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=samskillerpenis).



> This fic was written for the 2013 Supernatural Secret Santa. Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to everyone, especially the lovely [samskillerpenis](http://samskillerpenis.tumblr.com).
> 
> Special thanks to [Kenzie](http://yulestiel.tumblr.com),[Brandi](http://bruisedcastiel.tumblr.com) and [insertneopetsurlhere](http://insertneopetsurlhere.tumblr.com) for reading it through and helping me make it better.

The first time he ever saw Cas Milton, Dean Winchester was a young photographer living out of his Impala in New York City. The whole living-out-of-his-car situation was strictly temporary, though the photographer gig wasn’t. His senior year of high school he freelanced for the Lawrence Times and discovered that he really liked taking pictures. He saved up enough to by his own camera, and played around with angles, took scenic shots, did some very thorough Googling and practiced as much as possible until the camera became an extension of himself.

Much like the town paper, modeling agencies were always looking for freelancers. The most promising talent, they say at least, doesn’t come looking for an agent, so it was his job to… seek. Yeah, girls were pretty creeped out by the creepy guy (nineteen years old, but still gruff enough to look like a twenty-something) in a old leather jacket and combat boots. But once he pulled out his Cosmo badge, they were on him like bees on honey—and boy did he get laid that first year.

He didn’t live in his car that whole year, though, just the first couple months. When he finally got signed on as a salary photographer (he worked with smaller, catalogue-style publications, so he wasn’t a game yet) he could afford a small apartment while still sending money off to Sam.  His brother was, after all, going to college—lucky bitch.

The publication he worked the most with was a lingerie company. No complaints: the girls were sexy and the lead promotional coordinator, Benny, was really cool. He was in his early thirties with a wife and kid, so he kinda took Dean under his wing. He trusted Dean’s judgment because, no matter the theme or the pose or the girl, the pictures always turned out great. More than great, they turned out _sexy_.

About a year into his gig, Benny meets with Dean for coffee in the _Cosmo_ executive lounge. Dean’s brought a new book with new girls in it (some scouted by Dean, some by other freelancers at the agency) to look through. It never took long for Dean to know a model isn’t worth his time—they can’t hold their bodies, can’t hold a smile, can’t model. And plus none of the photographers, apparently, know how to work a camera; he tells Benny as much, laughing heartily.

He stops flipping through very suddenly, his eyes falling darkly on the photograph on the page. It’s not his photo and the angle is all wrong, but _still_ —

She’s got these piercing blue eyes, like they could glow in the dark if suddenly someone flipped a switch, and they stare right into the lens—right at Dean. She was natural, sitting on a small stool against a plain white backdrop, and wearing a dark blue blouse that clung slightly to her small breasts. Her shorts stopped midway at up her thigh, a light wash that extenuated the curve of her tanned, muscular thighs. And then her face: it was odd, and not in a bad way. She didn’t have that traditional feminine pointed chin, she was angles and she was beautiful.

Dean didn’t realize he stopped breathing until he felt Benny nudge him with his elbow.  “Cat got your tongue?” he drawled, teasing. Dean flushed read and fumbled to take out the picture.

With a determined stare, Dean flicks his finger against the photograph. “She’s the one.”

It seemed like Benny was the speechless one. “Eh, not to say she isn’t a beautiful woman, brother, but I don’t think this is what the boss is looking for.”

“But she is,” Dean explains. “You know what women see when they look in _Victoria’s Secret_ catalogues? Women with huge boobs spilling out of their bra cups. Yeah, there are a handful of women who want to be them, and dig the product, but I think chicks are getting tired of being misrepresented.” Most of this is words his brother told Dean, when he first started taking pictures. Apparently the kid was half-convinced Dean was gonna become some kind of voyeuristic asshole—so he gave this huge bullshit feminism speech that…turned out not to be bullshit.

“So you’re saying she’s the girl next door?” Benny clarified doubtfully.

“No, but she’s pretty, she’s curvy, she is natural in front of a camera. She’ll wear your product like the average _Beauté Féminine_ customer would.” And Dean does think that ass would look great in a thong.

Benny apparently trusted in Dean’s judgement, because he scribbled down her information listed below the photo. “We’ll be in contact with y’all in a few days,”  Benny told Dean evenly as he stood up. They shook hands cordially, and Benny turned to leave.

“See ya, Ben.”

The photograph still lay in Dean’s lap. Without thinking, he tucked it away in his personal portfolio; but chances were, he was ashamed to admit, it was going in his spank bank.

 

* * *

Dean never got to take the shots of the girl, though. Within a day of that meeting with Benny, he was picked up by _Vogue_ magazine in LA, as a staff photographer. It came with a big ass raise and the opportunity to carve out a new reputation. He even got his own stylist who taught him how he could embrace his rugged lifestyle without changing it. He already had the badass car, but he had to upgrade his fashion choices. Underneath his same old leather jacket he wore always-clean shirts and soft-checkered plaid. And his boots were no longer suited for combat, but they could still kick ass if he needed to.

He wasn’t that different, but he was very far removed from the sad, outed bisexual from Lawrence, Kansas living off In N Out and Red Bull.

Plus living in LA meant only a couple hours to see Sam in Stanford. Huge plus.

Still, he lamented never getting to dress up the girl, Cas was her name, but Benny did mail him the catalogue. The angles were okay, but damn she was beautiful.  Breasts framed with black lace. Hips dangerously pointed, and they could kill. He wish he had the chance to do the seductive dance of framing her body, capturing every whisper of beauty on her.

 

* * *

Three years later, he still dreams to have the chance. And maybe he will, since Cassandra Milton is now a household name and so is Dean Winchester. He is the most desirable photographer—who works for no one but himself now, as fate would have it—and their paths are bound to cross. Sooner rather than later, or at least he hopes.

When he sees the cover of the December _Victoria’s Secret_ catalogue—he has a subscription, he won’t deny it—he feels like his word breaks just a little. Plastered on the front is none other than Cas Milton, sporting lingerie not too different from the black-laced set. Except, she’s wearing thigh highs. Goddamned thigh highs. Before he realizes he’s dialing his phone, Dean is yelling at his contact at—well, the Editor of— the _Victoria’s Secret_ catalogue.

“Bela, I should have done this photoshoot,” he growls into his cell phone.

“Dean, I can’t get you in the room with every star, now,” Bela Talbot tuts back, snide as ever and Dean feels bile rise in his throat.

“This is Cas—Cassandra Milton. I would have done this and it would have been better than the shit you published.” It actually wasn’t all that bad but Dean could tell the photos have been grossly photoshopped. He could have done better without, and she—Cas—would be beautiful.

Bela sighs through the line. “Dean Winchester, maybe next time. You can come to the runway show, she’ll be there.” He can hear her smile, like she knows something Dean does not. “In all her glory. I’ll even get you a backstage pass and photoshoot—we have a writer from _GQ_ coming in. I was going to call you and everything,” she says innocently.

“ _GQ_?” Dean asks first, shaking his head. “Okay—never mind. I’ll do it. My agent will be in touch with you.” He hangs up on her.

 

* * *

The next morning Dean’s on a plane to New York. He begrudges the whole short-notice deal, but he won’t miss out on an opportunity to get his lens all over Cas. His entire body buzzes with anticipation, and he mindlessly zips and unzips his camera case during the entire flight.

Even when he gets to the fashion show, he doesn’t really enjoy many of the events. There is a ridiculous string of pop singers with cut-and-paste songs, to which the ‘Angels’ all dance around to like monkeys. He doesn’t see _his_ angel though, which is disappointing. After taking a few long distance shots (he’s not getting paid for it, but girls in underwear dancing? Yeah, going in his personal collection). He sits through one whole Taylor Swift song before he gets up from his seat angrily, damn near tripping over Brad Pitt’s man purse for fucks sake, before heading down the aisle.

Just below the music Dean hears his named called and turns annoyedly. “What?”

“You should be happy to see me? I’m here to rescue you from this awful American music,” Bela says as she comes toward him, wearing a long red dress that barely touches the floor, ripples as she walks. Instinctively Dean reaches for the camera hanging around his neck, but then remembers that Bela is a bitch and her sour British face doesn’t deserve to be captured by his lens.

“You should have taken me backstage hours ago for prep,” Dean growls. “You can’t treat me this way.”

“I surely can treat you however I please—this is my dog and pony show,” she counters eloquently, yet fierce in tone. Bela rolls her eyes and waves her hand. “Come on, follow me.”

Backstage, girls are everywhere. If Dean were eighteen again this would totally be his wet dream—well, it is his wet dream but now he has the wherewithal to handle it like a fucking adult. For the most part. He snaps a few shots as he walks, not really even aiming because, well, there are girls _everywhere_.

Bela takes a sharp right turn in front of one dressing room and pushes open a door. In it a crew flurries around, adjusting the lighting and a large dark blue backdrop. Dean’s annoyance is replaced with utter excitement, and he raises his camera up to his eye and takes a plethora of pictures, if only to capture the moment leading up to—up to this. Cassandra Milton, modeling for him, posing for him, and she doesn’t even know how intimately responsible Dean is for getting her discovered when she did. Her photos in _Beauté Féminine_ _’s_ catalogue caught the eyes of _Cosmo_ , and she became a sensation overnight. Everyone wanted her.

Dean ventures to say he wants her more.

“Cas is finishing up the interview with _GQ_ over there,” Bela says with a broad smile, gesturing to another door on the opposite side of the backdrop. “I suggest you go make friends.”

“Thanks,” he snaps back disingenuously, but does so anyways. He lightly knocks on the door and then pushes it open.

Inside sits a man and a woman—a woman who is most definitely _not_ Cassandra Milton. While the man is faced away from him, the woman’s turns up at his entrance and explodes with a smile—and that’s when Dean recognizes her. Becky Rosen, freelance writer who actually wrote an article about him in _People_. It was a piece of shit article too, but it did kickstart his career in the limelight: edgy, bisexual, all-american photographer. Adjectives that should never go together, the weird, wiry woman made them fit.

He’d only spoken to her over the phone, but his recognition of her crossed his expression like a paling horror. “Hey, um, Becky?”

She didn’t notice his disgust. She jumped up from her chair and came toward him quickly, pressing kisses to Dean’s stubbled cheeks. He did not like that, but he didn’t want to chance pissing off the best tabloid journalist in America. “Dean. Winchester. What an honor to actually see your face—” she, for some reason feels the need to touch said face, “—in person. Like, wow. You are so hot.”

“Um, thanks.”

“No problem,” she replies cheerfully, sitting back down. “Now, you are about to meet icon of the century. Dean Winchester, meet—”

“I’m here to meet Cas,” Dean cuts her off impatiently, thumbing at his camera lens.

That’s when he notices the man turn in his chair and begin to stand. Dean blinks a few times, struck by the sudden sensation of familiarity. He might be a movie star, based on his trim suit that accentuates his narrow waist, the deep blue tie that brought out his eyes.

Something curls in the pit of Dean’s stomach, but before his brain can translate the revelation burning in the back of his mind, the man stretches out a hand. Nice hand. Dean robotically goes for it, squeezing the soft skin.

“Hello Dean,” the man says, voice low and crisp and rasping unbelievably—slow. “I am Cas, Castiel Milton.”

 

* * *

 

So it turns out that Dean Winchester actually has a professional autopilot. In his mind, he is racing, sputtering like a when a car gets a flat and you’re riding on the rims, and you can feel each little ditch in the road but you keep going. That’s how he feels, but it apparently doesn’t show. Luckily Cas—the _man_ Cas, not a girl, a _man_ —doesn’t seem keen on smalltalk so it’s a nudge-nudge here and an ‘I’m familiar with your work’ there, and all the while Dean feels caught in a dream.

In his state, he barely can wraps his head around the explanation for this whole mess. Apparently the _Victoria’s Secret_ Fashion Show is Cas’s farewell to modeling—as a woman. He has apparently been playing both sides: he crossdressed and modeled under Cassandra Milton, and also modeled male clothing under a completely different pseudonym. How the fuck he managed that, Dean doesn’t know, but the photos he’s taking are going to be the first of Castiel Milton. In _Gentlemen’s Quarterly_ —and on the cover. He should be eager, excited, but he is in shock.

It’s when the shoot actually starts that Dean feels safe. Behind his lens, he’s always safe. He is literally looking through a window into his life, but through this one he can squint and glare and oogle if the situation permitted. But when he’s shooting Cas Milton—Castiel, that’s his real name—he is afraid and fascinated and—aroused. Inappropriately so. The lecture from Sam about voyeurism hits his conscious mind faster than he can sustain it and then comes the guilt. It’s unbidden and burning, just like his groin every time Cas changes position. In a suit and tie, the man handles himself well (for having built his modeling career as a female) in front of a camera. His eyes burn in each photo Dean takes, and that’s when it finally hits him: this is his dream.

Sure, he was expecting a woman, but not because he wanted to fuck her or anything. No, he saw talent and potential and beauty from the get-go—all of which, in hindsight, are not purely feminine traits. In fact, the suave and stealthiness of this man’s photos gave Dean the same exact pang of satisfaction every time he pulled the trigger.

He adjusts the lighting, changes the drop, and asks the stylist to wipe the damn bronzer off Cas’s cheeks. “He doesn’t need it,” Dean all but growls, not meaning to gaze so fervently at the man, but his stomach turns in knots when Cas looks back with a curious yet intense glance. Dean clicks his trigger, flash filling the room and leaving Cas blinking in surprise. “You look great, man.”

Castiel regains his posture and raises his head, acknowledging the praise before twisting his shoulders. Dean holds down his trigger then, capturing each fractional movement, knowing that each individual photo would be innocent but, strung together, would be pure sensuality.

It is that moment that Dean realizes that all the quirks that made Cas an exceptional female model made him the sexiest fucking man he’d ever laid eyes on. Hands down. And he lived in LA.

“These are looking so good,” Dean murmurs loud enough for Cas to hear as he circles the backdrop. Cas’s eyes follow his movement, and he churns his body, rolling muscle and bone like he was made to stretch—like a cat, Dean automatically thinks, but he doesn’t even like cats. He’s allergic to them. Nonetheless, he feels his mouth pool with saliva, a sign of hunger, but his body aches not for food.

The feeling goes on for what feels like hours, and Dean must have taken five-thousand photos before Bela arrives again, touches him on the shoulder. He jumps, hating the feeling of being disturbed while in the flow of his photography.

“Ah, I see all is going well here, then?” Bela asks, feigning warmness as she curls her fingers over Dean’s collarbone. “Isn’t Castiel just darling in a suit? Makes up for all those years in women’s panties, right angel?” She winks at Castiel, and Dean almost misses the disgusted twitch of the guys lip before it curls into a smile.

“I can’t say I’ll terribly miss modeling women’s underwear,” Cas replies earnestly.

“Oh, but we’ll miss you.” She blows him a kiss. “Now come, you have an audience to address. On live TV! Oh, the ratings this year are going to be glorious.”

It was Dean’s turn to be disgusted because, really? She was profiting off this guy’s equivalent of coming out? “Leave him the fuck alone,” Dean can’t help but bite out. She raises a brow, challenging him. “Where’s his agent? Why the hell are you dealing with Cas Milton personally?” Really, she may be a damn good business woman and even really hot, but someone like Cas really shouldn’t have to put up with her level of bullshit.

“I haven’t had my own agent in months,” Castiel admits. “My former agent, Crowley, dropped me as soon as I made up my mind to do—this. Said the publicity would be too terrible.” His shoulders fall. “I employ the responsibility upon myself.”

Dean raises his brows quietly to himself, impressed. “Well you’d make a hell of a businessman.”

“My Master’s is actually in business.”

Dean opens his mouth to inquire further, but Bela is hanging on Castiel’s shoulder. “No time to chat, boys, Castiel must make his debut.” She wiggles her fingers, managing to make each fractional movement simultaneously upbeat and patronizing. “ _Ciao_ ”

Dean fumbles into his jean pocket quickly as the two walk away, finding a wrinkled stack of business cards. His agent always taught him to keep the damned things handy, in the beginning, but now he just sticks them in his pocket out of habit. Luckily, this stack seems to have not been tossed in the washer along with his jeans.

He goes into a slight sprint, catching up with them. “Castiel!” he calls out and the man rotates his head to squint back at Dean, seeming a little helpless as Bela pulls him along, arm-in-arm. Bela doesn’t even notice as Dean shoves his business card into the front pocket of Castiel’s suit pants. “Bye,” he says to Cas, earning a glare from Bela.

Blue eyes relax, the brows framing them pull together hopefully. “Thank you, Dean.” Before he was completely out of Dean’s sight, he sees Castiel prod his hand into that pocket and hold it there, as if it were cold.

Dean feels suddenly inexplicably warm.

 

* * *

 

Dean is back in California for the rest of January, and he is fucking grateful because there is nothing more he hates than flying goddamned airplanes. He spends his time back in LA as he normally would: doing shoots for _Vogue_ , _People_ , and a few upscale advertisers. On days when he’s free, he’ll even commute to Sam’s apartment and they’ll play Call of Duty on his couch.

Beside the usual mingling with the upper crust assholes, Dean’s social life is nonexistent, he is okay with that. He has been okay with pursuing his career and having a casual fuck here and there when he got tired of his right hand, so he hasn’t sought out a relationship. No, not Dean Winchester.

But ever since the Castiel vs. Cassandra debacle, Dean can’t get the blue eyed man out of his head. It’s still pretty damn hard to reconcile the object of many of his feminine fantasies for the past three years with the most recent male fantasy that wears a suit and tie. He wonders, mostly, how, but doesn’t linger on it. After all, Hollywood isn’t just a movie thing—it’s written all over the models too. He was a little disappointed that that Cas isn’t a woman, but that quickly faded when he thought of how a man like that could drift between gender roles, and he wondered how unique of a sex life they could share together. Between Dean’s perpetual horniness and Castiel’s...open mindedness, they could have a hell of a time.

Dean scolds himself for thinking like that, because he does have a tendency to think that everyone wants him. After all he’s the lucrative and lewd photographer with a smile dripping with charm and an edge to every outfit; he is Dean Winchester. It seems as though years have been invested on his part into this concept of Cas—Cassandra, as it was—and he owes more respect to his ideal woman (and, by some miracle, his ideal man) than to be so cocky.

Mostly, his mind skirts around the hope that Cas would give him a call. He thought they made some connection, or maybe Castiel was just really comfortable with intense eye contact. Either way, the thought of the pair of amazing blue eyes walking into his private studio in Santa Monica lingered in the forefront of his thoughts as he photographed a young up-and-coming actress for some magazine— _People_ , if he’s right. Really, keeping track of who gets what is Gabe’s job. Dean’s only there for the feeling of losing himself behind a lens.

The actress, her name’s Charlie, casts a wayward frown at Dean, placing her hands on her hips. “Come on, are you really getting that side?”

“What side is that?” Dean asks, only partly feigning innocence as he climbs up from the knee he’s bent down on.

Charlie glares as she slaps a hand on her backside. “This side, you pervert.” She is only partly playful, lips tipping slightly at the edge. “But no, dude, you look distracted as hell.” He rolls his eyes at the red head, an action which earns him an admittedly painful punch in the shoulder. “Look, you’re supposed to be making my nerdy ass look good, not by taking close ups of my left cheek. So let’s get this out of your system so I can go home,” she gushes impatiently.

Dean rubs the spot on his shoulder where her fist met his skin, and then shakes his head shortly. “It’s nothing, let me just get a couple more shots. Then you can go.” He says it silently and finds himself snapping photo after photo, flashes reflecting slightly against the backdrop. He pauses only to change the light’s angle, before resuming his session, wordless.

 

* * *

 

The next morning is a Sunday, a day of rest for most. For Dean, is a day of eating.

He has to meet with Gabe sometime during the day to pass on the photos of Charlie Bradbury, burned to a CD, to his agent to go to whichever magazine has Dean at their beck and call. He doesn’t really care, because at the end of the day he gets paid handsomely, mostly because he somehow scored the best in the business.

Dean’s favorite bistro in Santa Monica is a little place called _Alphonsa_ , and Sunday mornings they serve the best freaking buffet brunch that Dean’s ever had the pleasure of laying his mouth upon. That string of thought brings to mind an incredible amount of immature innuendos that make Dean chuckle.

“Wanna share the joke, Dean-o?”

Dean snorts before taking a bite of a deliciously juicy burger, courtesy of a generous chef that understands a man’s need for a just a plain ol’ good burger. “Just thinkin’,” he answers.

Gabe drops his fork—guy’s already past the point of breakfast and has moved on to some whipped cream covered cheesecake, sweet Jesus—and dabs his lips with a napkin. Dapper as fuck are the three words that instantly comes to Dean’s mind, but he knows better—Gabe’s a bigger goofball than any guy he’s ever met. What makes up for it is being the master of public relations, including his own.

“Get your head wrapped around this,” Gabe starts as he pulls out his phone-slash-personal-assistant. “ _InStyle_ magazine wants you in LA for a shoot this Saturday, apparently Nine West is paying out of their ass so your name is on the photo credit for some three-inch-heely death trap. Whatever.” His tone is entirely dismissive, and Dean feels something hit his shin. A peek beneath the table reveals that Gabriel’s kicked off his shoes—literally—and his big toe pokes through a hole in his dress sock.

“Put that away.”

Teasingly, Gabe plays a game of one-sided footsie while he wiggles his eyebrows. “You know you like it.”

“Actually, it’s gross. That’s something I did to my brother and you—actually, fuck.” Dean blinks, a moment of realization coming over him. “You are just like my brother.”

Gabe actually scoffs, entirely dismissing the statement. “I have met your brother—cute, but a prude, I’m sure.”

“You’d be surprised how many times he put olive oil in my shampoo bottle,” Dean admits remorsefully, a ghostly gooey feeling crawling over his scalp. He tussles his own hair. “Anyways, yeah, you’re basically my baby brother with a sweet tooth and without a lawyer-shaped stick up your ass. By default, you are not my type.” He emphatically pushes his boot into Gabe’s foot, effectively away from him.

“Eugh, fine. Your type—ah, that does bring me to your plans next Wednesday,” Gabe says with a little mischief.

Dean narrows his eyes, filling his voice with annoyance. “What?”

The smile that curls on Gabe’s lips is concerning. “Cas—Castiel Milton, man of the year, who would have thought? Sigh, he was a babe wasn’t he? I know you don’t really swing for dudes—heh, _much—_ but man I know you crushed on him as a babe—”

“Just stop talking, please,” Dean grinds out and rubs his forehead with the rough pads of his fingers.

Gabe holds up a finger. “Not done,” he tuts. “As I was saying, I could totally see you two together. Plus it would be a field day for both of your press careers.”

“You know I couldn’t care less for that bullshit.”

“I know, yikes, you just have no sense of reason do you?” Gabriel sighs. “Okay, all that aside, you two would be cute together. And I might have hooked you up on a hot date.”

“What?” Dean demands, eyes wide.

“Calm your tits, by date I meant  _photo shoot_. But, damn, it’ll still be hot.”

 

* * *

 

By hot, apparently, Gabriel was referring to temperature. Outdoor temperature, that’s what Gabe meant. Even though he was a little peeved that Gabe insisted to keep him out of the loop until a few hours prior to the shoot, for whatever reason, there was a relief that came with mystery. Especially when it came to Cas, seemingly the most mysterious person Dean’s ever met.

At least, he was relieved until he arrived at the set, right on an empty beach shore cocooned by gray and white rock that towers above it all. Practically all calm and serenity one would expect from a beach set dissolves the moment he sees Cas facing the ocean, bare feet planted firmly in the sand.

The sun is starting to set, which essentially gives Dean a small window of opportunity to get all the photos the client—it’s _People_ , today, apparently—wants. A brief chat with the makeup artist confirms that Cas has already been tended to in that arena, though he would be content in a fantasy in which Cas wears nothing but his own skin.

And sweet mother Mary, that’s basically all the man is wearing beside the dark blue speedo that looks suspiciously the same shade as the man’s eye color. Dean’s stomach begins to do backflips and somersaults, so he does what he does best—raises the lens to his eye and presses the finger down on the trigger.

The few moments before Castiel notices Dean’s presence captures the most genuine of photos. Although Dean does not stop to examine the product, Dean sees the story unravel regardless. For a moment it is simple calm, oblivious serenity as Cas looks out into the sun setting over turbulent waters. Yellows and reds cascade over his sculpted chin, mix with his dark brown hair like it can absorb all the colors of the sun.

Then Castiel notices Dean and shock enters the digital film; a moment later Dean hears a sigh of his own name above the camera’s clicking. He doesn’t stop though. Sunsets are indefinite, and part of Dean hopes that his window of opportunity with Cas will not shut when the sun disappears over the ocean.

What kind of opportunity Dean seeks, he’s unsure of. Part of him holds close a fantasy from years ago that a gorgeous model will look at him and see more than an outlet for fame, more than a rugged, unfixable outcast that has resorted to telling his story with the poses and faces and beauty of others.

At last, just as the sun’s angle is perfect and the light hits Cas’s body in all the right places, the man shifts his body and face into placid chalance. Snap, whirr, beep. Dean has every photo he needs.

So he lets the camera fall limp against his chest, the heavy weight tugging uncomfortably at the back of his neck.

“Cas,” he manages quietly, forcing a smile to his lips. “Sorry ‘bout that, didn’t want to miss—”

“The sunset, I know,” he interrupts, irritation pinching at his tone. Castiel licks his lips, eyes narrowing before he turns to walk toward the set’s tent which is erected farther away from the shore near the road.

“Wait!” Dean calls out half heartedly, attempting to run through wet sand. His feet are slow, but his heart beats fast. “Why are you walking away from me?”

Castiel, to his surprise, stops and looks at him. “Why not?”

“Because that’s kind of an asshole-ish thing to do?”

“I,” Castiel starts, tone piqued with anger, but then it falls away. Seeming pained, he turns his body fully to face Dean as the photographer continues his approach. “I am sorry I—that was incredibly rude of me. I am not in the greatest of moods today.”

Dean feels the return of that relief, and he doesn’t know why. But he’s relieved, and he exhales with a smile. “It’s good, we all have those days. For me they’re pretty much a daily occurrence.”

“I fear that is becoming my own trend, as well.”

“Um, well, what about you go change into something comfy—” Dean eyes the speedo briefly, wonders how comfortable that wonderfully tight piece of fabric is, “—and we’ll go out for a drink. Little alcohol goes a long way to cool the nerves.”

Castiel’s eyes take on a glitter that, Dean finds, is quite astonishing under the moonlit sky. Subconsciously he licks his lips, and Castiel mirrors him. “I shouldn’t…”

“If you’re busy, it’s no problem. It’s an offer, you ain’t obligated to do shit for me,” says Dean.

“No, no,” Castiel replies hurriedly. “I will—I will accompany you. It’s the least I can do for you helping me through this...troubling time.”

Dean swallows a little, frowning. “I haven’t done much of nothin’.”

“You’d be surprised, the impact of one or two flattering pictures pasted on magazines. It is so much better than the alternative, one in which I’m painted as a mere… drag queen.” Castiel closes his eyes, shaking his head curtly. “I—I’m going to go get dressed now.”

“Alright,” Dean says as he watches the man disappear into the tent. He sets his camera bag on the sandy floor and begins to disassemble and pack his camera, a little mindless and numb.

In his mind, Dean wonders, if Gabriel knew this was the outcome all along—a hot date.

 

* * *

 

"So," Dean drawls out after taking a long drink—of Pepsi. It was still early and, honestly, he wanted to avoid a drunken night with his dream guy as much as possible. “I read that article in _GQ_.”

Castiel shifts in his seat. It’s an uncomfortable motion Dean wouldn’t have even noticed if every single fiber of his attention wasn’t pinpointed on the man sitting across from him. The man’s shoulders roll, a mere shrug, as his eyes become a little more hooded than before. “Was it a pleasant read?”

“It was sensational, to say the least. I’m not surprised, given the writer is worse than any fan I’ve ever met. You give her an inch—”

“She writes a series of novellas based on that inch, as if it were a mile,” Castiel says.

It’s Dean’s turn to shrug, because he is honestly stunned by the tiredness and irritation evident in the man’s voice. “Basically. But dude, I’ve been there. Becky Rosen should be writing slash novels, not centerfold stories.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Castiel leans his entire body forward and wraps his lips around his draw, and Dean can’t help but watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows a long drag of water. The first thing he wonders is how he missed that? This man is pure masculinity, all muscles and lines and angles and the dude’s even got a sexy shadow going on, prickling his chin and jaw.

The second thing he wonders is why doesn’t he care? He never has found the mingling of two distinct sexes appealing, especially when it came to the brain between his legs. Yet, he can look at this man and accept that his legs have stubble instead of simple coarse hair, because he shaved incessantly for years as a woman would; and then, in the privacy of his own home, he can still delve into his spank bank of Cassandra Milton spreads and find that sweet release knowing that the model has a dick.

Two sides to an amazingly, sexy, beautiful coin. Yeah, that’s basically Cas Milton.

The influx of gooey feelings in the pit of Dean’s stomach cause his ears and face to burn red. Immediately he clears his throat, searching for a long lost train of thought. “Oh, um, yeah. So I especially liked that anecdote about 'the first time' you, you know.”

A smile begins to tug at Castiel’s lips and Dean feels his nerves sizzle in his stomach some more—awesome.

“Ah, the first time I went out in drag,” Cas muses, leaning forward (and Dean realizes he is leaning forward is well, completely invested in any words that come out of Cas’s mouth). “Becky did not do the story justice, I’m afraid.”

Dean swallows, then licks his lips in interest. “Enlighten me.”

“Very well—” Castiel presses back a smile and leans back in his seat. “I was eighteen and my family was quite religious. My father had been very—very insistent that I did not dishonor the family by behaving in any manner that was ungodly.”

“Sound like fucking Mulan,” says Dean with a bite in his tone. He knew a thing or two about shitty, oppressive fathers.

In response, Cas laughs quietly. “I suppose. Frankly, I was tired and prepared to leave for college, anyhow. It was time to bid my family farewell, and welcome the lifestyle—that I wanted, at the time at least. So, one Sunday morning, I went to my sisters room—she had slept over at a friends house, if I recall correctly—and donned a dress and heels, wore her make-up and… did the necessary grooming And then went to church.” He scratches a hand across his beard with a smirk. “I do not even recall what my parents did, that afternoon. I lasted a whole service without anyone recognizing me as Castiel Milton.”

“That’s fucking awesome,” Dean says.

“It was quite enthralling.”

“So you had such an exciting career—and you were, um, really good man,” Dean tries to say neutrally. “Why’d you stop? Becky wrote some cheesy bullshit about ‘moving on to bigger and better things’ but you don’t just stop—that, do you? Not trying to be offensive, but you know what I mean?” Shit, now he sounds like an ignorant asshole.

“Oh, I understand your question,” Castiel assures him, waving a hand as if to dismiss any of Dean’s worry. “My answer is not simple, however. I… I just wanted to stop. As a model, I’m getting older anyhow. Yes, I want to move on and find a more lucrative career, but I also recognize that my career is not my life. I am nearly thirty, Dean. I want a family.”

Ah.

“You don’t think anyone wants to be with someone who dresses up like a woman?” Dean asks, voice quieter than before and nearly lost beneath the quiet buzz of the bar.

Castiel nods, eyes casting downward miserably—miserably. “I do not discriminate sexually. But it seems most women perceive less masculinity when I dress up. And the men, most seem to think I am just highly confused. Cumulatively, they all seem to think I am just dysfunctional.”

“You ain’t,” Dean breathes quicker than he can stop himself, his body leaning into his words. “And you shouldn’t have to change for other people. Isn’t right”

“Kind words from a kind man.” Castiel’s lips pull up slightly, a barely-there smile. “I wouldn’t know where to begin to find someone as accepting as you.”

Blinking, a heat washes over Dean’s chest, and that same burn spreads through his cheeks and to the tips of his ears and he hopes the dim lighting conceals the most obvious blush.

“You could start here?” he gushes, once again speaking faster than he can process warning thoughts—thoughts that would convey no Dean, he isn’t into you, you’re not good enough, you are trash, which are just fears set so deep within the folds of his mind. They were probably tucked in there by his father, the kids from high school.

Cas’s mouth opens, and then closes, and everything runs cold when his lips pull up into a true, unadulterated smile. “Alright.”

And that’s how Dean Winchester turned drinks with a client into his first date with a supermodel.

 

* * *

 

Like many relationships, first dates turn to second, and then thirds. Between their schedules true dates come far and few between, but they sometimes will settle down on the couch of Dean’s loft and watch old Star Trek reruns. Cas likes Star Trek, and Dean feels warm when, occasionally, Cas will simply just hold his hand and whisper, “sleepy Captain?” And he is most of the time, full with popcorn and warm with affection that he’s never experienced before.

He’s never been in a relationship like this one, despite its typical (or are they?) beginnings. More often than not, he’s lost in a sea of blue eyes over dinner, or distracted by the body pressed against his side when the two of them watch TV on the couch. It’s so incredibly normal, but for Dean he feels a burn in his chest and butterflies in his stomach.

And when they _kiss_ —

Their first kiss was unexpected, when Dean drove Cas back to his apartment in LA. It was late and Cas was already climbing out of the car when Dean compulsively reached to the passenger’s side to flip off the air vent—more for him on the drive home—but Cas dove in for the kill. His lips landed sloppily on the side of Dean’s mouth, and it ended with an apology. All distractions gone, Dean shook his head with furrowed brows and told Cas not to apologize for that, never for that. And then Dean tried again. It was soft and hot and oozing emotions Dean thought he shouldn’t have yet, but maybe they’ve been there all along.

They have never gone farther than kissing, not because neither of them want to, but because they both silently agree that what they share is far too precious to tarnish with a desperate need to get off. Dean has too many flings, one-night stands, and he doesn't want to risk Cas being but one in a long string of could-have-been loves.

But Dean is curious why Cas never tries to push the letter.

The small, inquisitive thought lingers in the back of his mind as their relationship blossoms. It’s an innate fixture to his mind, at least in the beginning. Months pass and they have fallen into push and pull motions, always drawn toward each other even as their jobs pull them apart for weeks at a time. Curiosity grows to concern when the frequency of Cas pushing Dean away when they’re about to push the letter exceeds that of Dean’s.

Weeks of concern cause Dean to become irritable, but he pushes it all down. He should be grateful for what he has, because it’s pretty damn good. If Cas doesn’t want any more right now, who is he to force anything?

Regardless of Dean’s attempts to be a stone cold champ, it all comes to a head during an intense makeout session on Cas’s couch. They’ve just come from a big New York fashion show, for which Cas was the night’s star. Dean had made sure to only have one glass of champagne so he could be in his right mind for this night, because they were both dressed up prim and proper. Cas looked great in every Armani suit he wore. He breathed grace and masculinity even as he glided across the runway.

Every spare moment of the night Dean got his lips on Cas—whether it was his cheek or neck of his hand, Dean wanted him to know, without words being spoken, that Cas was the most beautiful creature that he’d ever known and will ever know.

And as they mouth and lick at each other like teenagers on Cas’s leather couch, he expresses as much with fervor and as many words he can muster between their conjoined panting. He pulls his legs onto the cushions and manages to snake his thighs around Cas’s waist, and then straddles him without relent. Hands fist into the lapels of his suit jacket—damn, and Cas keeps saying he looks so good in his suit, so sexy. Dean returns the sentiment with wandering hands; he untucks Cas’s dress shirt and tells him that no man could wear a suit and tie like Castiel Milton. No man should or the whole goddamned universe would be perpetually horny.

“Are you perpetually horny, Dean?” Castiel rasps against his ear, tongue suddenly wrapping around his lobe, sucking so gently that a whimper forces its way from between Dean’s lips.

Dean blinks hard, trying to regain his ability to make english.“For you, yeah,” he breathes, and he thinks this is it, _I finally get to fuck my boyfriend_ , and if that doesn’t send his hard-on straight to second base, prepped to take it on home, nothing else will. He grinds his clothed crotch right into Cas’s, eliciting harmonious moans from them both. Dean slides his hands higher underneath Cas’s dress shirt, feeling the parts of the man’s chest like he had never touched a man before.

Their lips stutter against each other suddenly, and Dean feels something wrong as Cas’s lips cease to slowly grind, grind like—like he was into it. A pit falls into Dean’s stomach when Cas takes the aching rejection a step further and grabs Dean’s wrists, not forcing him away, but making him aware that this needed to stop.

“Dean,” Cas achingly manages right as Dean begins to pull away. Normally Dean is gentle, understanding, okay with the drawing of lines. He could usually settle for some intense, gratifying snuggling, but they’ve never gone this far. Cas has never pressed their, albeit clothed, dicks together and grinded up into him needily. Dean is aching and hard and his mouth is dry while his thoughts burn with rejection.

He climbs from the couch altogether, leaving Cas sitting there—disheveled and too sexy for either of their own good. Blue eyes watch him as he straightens his jacket and puts on his too-tight shoes. “I’m sorry, I’m just not—”

“Ready,” Dean finishes bitterly. “I know, Cas. I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas repeats, and it’s pleading and small. “Stay.”

Dean shouldn’t be able to say no, not when Cas looks at him like he’s some saint that he clearly isn’t. He almost does stop gathering himself, but rationale leaves him when he shoves his hand into his coat pocket, feels the cold metal of his keys. The sensation is one of freedom, but it sends chills through him.

“I’ll call you, ‘kay?” he says in lieu of the balls to say goodbye, mostly because he’s too afraid of what goodbye would mean. Instead he doesn’t think as he leaves. Thinking that someone could possibly want him as much as he wants them is what got him in this position in the first place.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, the paparazzi gets wind of the breakup between Castiel Milton and Dean Winchester.

Dean hadn’t seen Cas in a week when the press exploded. Somehow one magazine got a picture of Dean out in nothing but aviators, plaid flannel bottoms, and a wife beater. He had just got out to keep a freaking carton of milk in Santa Monica, didn’t feel like getting dressed up because it was, what? Five in the morning? It tossed fuel onto the fire, illustrated some disastrous story about the edgy, cocky photographer slipping into a depressed coma of fashionless torture.

Poor him, right?

On the other side of the country, some pap gets ahold of a picture of Cas walking down the street in sunglasses and sweats, a purplish bruise up his left cheek. When Dean sees the picture while in line at the grocery store, he’s blinded first by worry, then rage when the headlines imply that—that _Dean_ left the mark in a trail of their disastrous breakup.

What the caption doesn’t say is that Cas is wearing his Jayhawks hoody.

They didn’t even break up and suddenly Dean is an abusive asshole, depressed and lost without Cas?

Okay so the latter was partially true, but the rest is most definitely not. Right after he’s paid for his freaking cocoa puffs, he’s on the phone with Gabriel, who is seemingly as flustered by the situation as Dean is.

“This is fucking _ridiculous_ —I’d never—I’d never lay a _finger_ on him, we...we just—I just left didn’t—” Dean is heaving breaths, feeling his life crumble little by little around him. This could ruin him, if the press ever painted it as anything more than rumor. Dean is well aware how easily one can paint a story with the right photographs.

“Calm down Dean, I know you couldn’t hurt a fly—well, a fly you’re in love with.”

“I’m not,” Dean starts, then stops, because there’s no use protecting his man-pride now. He palms his face, feeling heat crawl over him. It’s shame and embarrassment. “If I had just stayed none of this would have happened. I don’t even know how he got the bruise!”

“Maybe he fell,” Gabe says.

Dean snorts. “Cas is as graceful as an angel—he wouldn’t just fall down and break his face.”

“Maybe you left your shoes laying around and he tripped.”

“This is beside the point Gabe,” Dean snaps back, shaking his head. “You gotta get these freaking magazines to stop publishing bullshit. Tell them we ain’t even broken up. We’re happy as ever—” He exhales. “I don’t know what to do.”

The line remains silent for a few seconds. “Well, have you tried calling him?”

_I’ll call you, ‘kay?_

Dean squeezes his eyes closed tight, and then lets out a string of curses as he grabs his grocery bags, heading toward his car in long strides. “Right, call him. I can do that,” he assures himself, forgetting that Gabe is listening.

“Sure you can, champ.”

“Fuck you,” he says and ends the call. Then he dials Cas.

 

* * *

 

After Dean hangs up with Cas, they agree to meet at _Alphonsa_ , because it’s a public and neutral place, enclosed for the most part, and a place they have both come to like very much. They both like the hamburgers, so when Dean gets there a little early he goes ahead and orders one for both of them.

He’s a little more than nervous when he sees Cas come through the door. He pauses at the front and wipes his feet on the rug while he sheds his sunglasses, looking around the restaurant. The moment their eyes meet, the world spins to a halt an Dean’s chest feels tight and he harbor every word of sorrow at the back of his throat. Milliseconds from flooding out.

To Dean’s surprise, Cas sits down next to him, not across. It is like nothing has changed, except Cas’s expression is quite obviously tentative, his blue eyes not apt to meet his own again. The world may implode if they did.

Dishes and silverware clink, sounds typical of a restaurant, but Dean mostly hears his own heartbeat. “Cas, I’m glad you came.”

“So am I,” Cas replies as he shifts in his seat, closer to Dean. They face each other, and Dean’s eyes flicker down to Cas’s lips. Part of him wonders if it’s an invitation, and the other part of him hesitates as to whether he should accept such an invitation. God knows he wants to. But the water beneath the bridge which is Dean-and-Cas seems to be stagnant, lackluster. He shouldn’t—

Cas makes the decision for the both of them and closes the distance between their mouths. A surprised gasps etches through Dean’s throat, but he gets into it very fast. Like riding a bicycle, as they say, even though Dean never had a bike of his own. That’s beside the point—tragic childhood or not, right now Dean’s whole chest flourishes like a field that’s seen rain for the first time in months. His hands cap Castiel’s face as he kisses back in earnest and he tries very hard to keep his tongue in homecourt, as they are in a public place.

“Dean,” Cas says against his lips, breaking their kiss and effectively shattering the few seconds of thoughtless bliss. Nothing had been resolved and, as per Dean’s coping methods, he was perfectly prepared to shove that night under a rug and resume his hopeless courting. Even if he knew that, in a few more months, he would burst again. That is not Cas’s manner of doing things, but Dean still sighs irritatedly as Cas goes on. “We need to talk about last week.”

“How about,” Dean says quietly, rubbing a thumb across Cas’s cheek. He finds that the skin is slightly yellowed, the remnants of an old bruise. His brows pull to cover, plaguing his expression with concern. “You tell me what happened to your face?”

“Oh.” Cas touches his cheek, and then winces as if the memory was painful. “I fell.”

“You fell.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Yes, I fell. In fact, I tripped over your duffle bag and slammed my face against the coffee table.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, um. Sorry.” Apparently Gabe was right for once—or twice.

“Now instead of  trying to change the subject, we talk about this. Us.” Castiel’s voice is soft and prodding, like Dean could possibly hold the answers.

Frustration bleeds through his words, the softness between them going dry. “There’s nothing for me to say, Cas. You don’t want to take the next step, okay. I’m cool with that.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain myself,” Castiel says back, voice uncharacteristically tense. His fists ball on top the table. “You just left and—you didn’t give me the chance to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?” Dean snaps. “You don’t want it? Then you don’t want it. You don’t want me. Despite popular belief, I’m not in this for the sex, obviously. I’m in it for you.”

“Are you, Dean? Because it seems to me you are perfectly ready to proceed with intercourse every time we  kiss—”

“Whoa, Cas, you were perfectly into it the other night, so don’t you go shoving all your commitment bullshit on me.”

“Don’t you see, Dean?” Castiel demands, grabbing his hand and pulling it to his chest. “I am _completely_ committed to you, but that does not mean I am—that I am immune to fear.” Cas’s voice breaks—no, it shatters like glass on concrete and Dean feels something break in him to. Cas just looks torn between rage and crumbling, so Dean lets his resolve loose. He presses his hand to Cas’s heart, barely feels the thrumming through the layers of clothes and skin and flesh.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he says with softness and warmth, and there’s some resolution about to be made when suddenly the waiter comes with their burgers. They pull away instantly, both reminded of and embarrassed by the fact their entire exchange had taken place in the middle of a restaurant. They remain silent as they eat, mostly; Dean comments on how good the burger is, Cas agrees. It’s too tense to breathe, almost. “Come back to my place, after,” he eventually says with his mouth full to Cas.

“Okay, Dean,” he agrees in an emotionless monotone.

 

* * *

 

Dean throws his keys in a little porcelain bowl in the kitchen as he goes to flip on the lights. He goes to the fridge first thing and picks up a Budlight, asks Cas if he wants one; Cas declines, so Dean thinks that maybe he should hold off on the alcohol too. He wants a level head anyways, and there’s just too much on the line.

He comes into the living room and finds Castiel holding a picture in his hands—it’s one of Dean at Sam’s graduation. He quietly sits next to Cas, not sure what to say about his boyfriend ogling over the photograph.

“I’d like to meet your brother,” Castiel says quietly and sets the photo back on the coffee table, then facing Dean. “You speak of him often, it seems as if I already know him—yet, I have never met him personally.”

Dean is at a loss for words for a few pregnant moments. He really does not have a reason for his brother not meeting his boyfriend, except timing. Sam’s always got some grad school business and Dean’s always working. He barely gets to see his brother himself. “It’s nothing  against you, we’re all just busy.”

“Oh, I know. It’s just he is so much a part of your life, part of who you are. I want to know him, so I may know you better, if that makes sense.” Castiel shrugs his shoulders, discomfort rolling off him like waves. Maybe it’s embarrassment.  It makes Dean’s tongue feel heavy in his mouth, and he tries to search for the right words that would ease the tension.

“I want him to meet you too, Cas,” he says, then licks his lower lip. “You’re a—a huge part of my life, and I don’t think you really get that sometimes.” His eyes flick away. Sometimes he's afraid what Cas'd do if he knew where Dean's infatuation began. Not months ago, or even a year ago at the peak of 'Cassandra's' meteoric rise to fame. Someday, maybe, he'll show Cas the folded up Cosmo photo that's tucked in an autograph book somewhere in his closet. “I’m not a man of words, but sometimes I hope that—the pictures I take, they convey how much I lo—” It’s there, it’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t force it out, not like this.

What he feels is fear and that’s the moment he realizes that commitment and fear don’t run on the same frequency—they aren’t opposing forces. He can see himself and Cas framed forever on his wall, happy and smiling, maybe each of them developing matching wrinkles around their eyes, their mouths. He sees endless dinners and trips to fashion shows and private photoshoots, an eternity—however limited by the span of humanity—with Cas. No one else, just Cas. Yet he can’t make that fucking word come out of his mouth.

“Hey,” Cas starts, pressing a hand to Dean’s jaw. He forces their eyes to meet, and it’s a melting stare. Dean forgets sometimes—not often—how much he likes Cas’s eyes. They’re the same ones that tore his attention through the ink of a poorly taken photograph. Their depth and color is unfathomable, as if it were pure blue acrylic paint smeared across his irises. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I should be able to,” says Dean as his eyes raise and then drop, falling into his lap.

“And I should be able to have sex with my boyfriend of three months, but here we are.” Cas licks his lips.

“I don’t hold it against you, Cas, I swear,” Dean says quickly. “Really, I was being a dick.”

Castiel sighs, not defeatedly but sounding tired. “No, you weren’t. It’s my own insecurities that have led us here. I told you I was afraid, Dean, of becoming intimate with you. It’s selfish to keep you in the dark any longer.”

“What do you mean, keep me in the da—”

Before Dean can complete his question, Cas’s lips are on his again—wet and cracked and relentlessly invasive as they share the reunion kiss that did not take place at _Alphonsa_. Dean’s limbs feel like dead weights, and it takes a solid seven seconds before his brain can signal them to move. He starts out by simply resting his hands on Cas’s hips as their kiss deepens, a moan falling from his lips when Cas tilts his chin back. Breath in breath, mouth in mouth, the seam between them evaporates. This may very well feel like Dean’s first kiss ever judging by the sparks going from his lips to the top of his spine all the way down his back.

Cas’s fingers follow the sensation—or perhaps their tips are triggering them, Dean doesn’t know—and trail down the back of Dean’s cableknit sweater, subtly pressing their chests together.

“Dean,” he says with parted lips, breath overflowing across Dean’s face like a mist of summer burning his skin. There is some prompting in his words, maybe asking Dean to do what he’s so afraid to. He nods as their lips scrape together before sealing again, and lets his hands move with more deliberate motions. Dean pushes his hand beneath Cas’s shirt, repeating the motions from their last night together. He feels the planes of Cas’s soft chest, rubs his thumbs into the hipbones jutting from above the waist of his pants.

When Dean’s fingers drift down to the zipper, Cas freezes and their kiss stutters. Dean opens his eyes and finds Cas’s, holds the stare as he sees fear pull at his eyebrows. He pauses his hands and brings one to Cas’s cheek, touches his jaw and strokes his fingers gently across the light stubble. “Hey, it’s me. Just me.”

Dean kisses Castiel earnestly once and short, and then Cas nods. It’s permission, and Dean takes it.

He unzips Cas’s jeans swiftly, while Cas fumbles with Dean’s. Undressing each other is as comfortable as it can be on a couch, but there is some excitement and utter relief when Dean finds that their pants are off, and he smiles wide as he makes fast work of relieving Cas of his plain blue tshirt. Cas is practically naked and Dean’s giddy like a twelve year old whose stumbled across his dad’s porno collection.

Dean begins to straddle Cas, but Dean studders to a halt when his eyes roll down the length of his body. Tanned legs and stomach, and—in between—

“Cas, you’re wearing panties,” Dean croaks, dragging a hand down Cas’s stomach, stopping just short of the dainty pink and red polk-a-dot things. His eyes flick up to meet Castiel’s, and his face is all red with embarrassment, lips knit together in worry. Suddenly it dawns on Dean that Cas is seconds away from freaking out, and—the puzzle pieces in his mind snap together. “Is _this_ why you wouldn’t have sex? Because you—you didn’t want me to see ‘em?”

“Yes,” Cas admits quietly. “I—I can’t let them go. I gave up my career as Cassandra, but I cannot let her go, either.” He shuts his eyes tight, licks his lips. “I—I can understand if you do not want to continue…”

“Shut up, Cas.” Dean silences any protest with his lips over Cas’s. He makes a noise that resonates against Dean’s mouth, one of surprise, when Dean’s right hand plucks at the waistband of Cas’s underwear. His hips pulsate, and their crotches magically align—no, not with Dean’s help at all—and they both moan this time.

“Dean, I—I love you,” Castiel says, and he sounds relieved and enthralled, words burning and searing Dean with the emotion behind them.

Dean kisses across his mouth as he works the panties down the backs of Cas’s thighs, kisses up his jaw and when he gets up to his ear, whispers, “I know.”

* * *

_**1 year later** _

“Dean, stop, I mean it,” Castiel groans as he tugs the comforter over his eyes, shielding them from the flash of Dean’s digital camera. His protests go on deaf ears, because Dean just keeps pulling down the quilt and capturing more grumpy morning pictures of Cas. Dean just cannot get over how he looks in the morning—how the man is just so not a morning person, yet he’s completely and breathtakingly sexy. “Dean.”

“C’mon,” Dean mutters, trying to get him to play along. He twists his ankles through the sheets, rubs at Cas’s naked ass cheek with his big toe. Maybe that’ll wake him up. “Is it too much to want pictures of my husband? For those long, heated nights when you’ve left me all alone with nothing but my right hand and a couple of of memories?”

Incredulous, Cas pushes the blanket from over his face and raises his brows. “I love you, but you do not get to interrupt my sleeping patterns just so you can get pictures for those ‘long, heated nights.’ By the way, since when are you a somniphiliac?”

Dean snorts. “Since you look so good asleep.”

“Then maybe I shouldn’t go to sleep again,” Cas groans and rolls over, pressing his mouth lazily against Dean’s shoulder. It becomes affectionate, eventually, and Cas’s lips graze over Dean’s collarbone. “Maybe…”

“Believe me, babe, I want you awake when my fire gets started,” Dean chuckles. “But, nonetheless, who are you to judge? You’re kinkier than me.”

Cas lifts his head so that their eyes meet. “Am I?” he asks, and their is a challenge on his voice, and shortly after Dean feels finger raking against his chest, hitting the camera dangling around his neck. “Tell me, Dean, is your camera video-capable?”

“Heh,” Dean says in lieu of an intelligible response, and takes off the camera nearly fast enough to throw it. Thank fuck he doesn't, his camera is his child. He knows there’s a setting, but he’s honestly never messed with it. He faces the lens toward the bed and presses the camera’s trigger. He pulls Cas on top of him, letting him straddle his waist.  He flushes red, so exposed by Cas's narrowed blue eyes and the fact he has turned the safety of his own lens on himself. Yet, with Cas's hands pressed against his chest like he's _treasured,_ he think he'll be alright. “We’ll find out.”


End file.
